


softly, fiercely, i set myself on fire

by redandgold



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Amputation, Angst, But Also!, M/M, Recovery, car crash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 03:53:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7343701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Steven Gerrard and Xabi Alonso first meet, neither of them can understand each other. A Spaniard trying to speak English and a Scouser trying to speak English and they fall over each other stumbling. Except that all melts away on the pitch: then they dance like dragons, the ball flowing between their feet like liquid gold. </p><p>Until, of course, one set of wheels comes off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	softly, fiercely, i set myself on fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anemoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/gifts).



> *keysmashes into oblivion* I DON'T KNOW WHAT THIS IS it was supposed to be fluff??????????? after reading Julija's ridiculously beautiful domestic Hendo/Sturridge (pls check out [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7044988)) I felt like doing one for Gerlonso but it, uh, it didn't turn out that way 
> 
> anyway have fun!! Many thanks to Shaz for her snapchat encouragement bc who else would I write Liverpool fic for sobs (hides away the mcgrowler im doing for Julija) (im A UN i te D FA N i sw E A r)

 

"Let's buy a boat," says Xabi. Steven squeezes his hand.

 

*

 

They don't talk about it, not at first; Xabi's never liked to talk about anything and Steven wouldn't know what to say. Instead they live in silence that echoes around their ears like an orison. Sometimes Steven gently nudges Xabi's chair in the right direction and Xabi moves without a word. Steven feels helpless far too often, like a drowning man trying to save a shark that nips tiredly at him out of habit.

Sometimes Xabi tries to stand up. Steven catches him in slivers of light, in the hallway when he's bending down to straighten the shoe rack and half-hops before sitting down heavily again. Or when he's reaching for a shirt on the top shelf it's almost like he pretends to tip-toe, curving out and up through the air, before his eyes swivel to Steven who's standing in the door and comes to take the shirt for him. Steven looks at his own feet and wishes he could give them away.

 

*

 

"Let's buy a boat," says Xabi. They're having steak and chips in a restaurant off the Albert Dock. It's expensive as fuck but it's also classy and apparently it's not steak and chips even though it is. Xabi's very insistent on that.

Stevie snorts into his gravy. "You're mad," he says. "What do we need a boat for?"

Xabi shrugs. "I don't know. We might need something to do after we retire."

"Not that soon, mate," Steven says, winking, reaching over to run his fingers over the corded muscle of Xabi's forearm. "Not that soon. You have a few years left in you yet."

"I can't run anymore," Xabi complains. "The papers keep saying that. Alonso, slower than snails."

"I'll do your running for you, then." Steven grins him so infectiously that Xabi has no choice but to grin back. The sun's setting under the railing and the soft red glow lights up their faces like matches in the dark, flickering gently in the wind.

 

*

 

Xabi can't run anymore. Two years ago in Bayern a car and alcohol made sure of that. Steven watched him cry the way he never had in Athens, hunched over his knees with a writhing pain that came in jolts. It had been Autumn and the leaves had been falling.

Steven took him home and gave him the spare bedroom. He gets back late one night after the pub with the lads and stumbles through the house in the dark before finding himself in front of the wrong door. It's slightly ajar and he aligns his eye with the gap as if he's lining up a pass, ball aimed at _my mate Xabi_ who could play like rivers run. Xabi's there but he's not playing, he's sitting, and the rims of the wheelchair flash silver. He's staring at them intently, eyes as blank as angels' wings. Then without warning his entire body shudders, wrenched up, riddled with bullets and dry sobs. He whimpers again and again, his slender fingers closing around empty space, like he's trying to chase the light where there is none.

Steven feels his stomach curdle. The wine on his tongue tastes like guilt. He backs down the corridor quick until he's running away, drowning out the silver in the sound of his footsteps.

 

*

 

He tries to apologise, once.

Xabi looks at him and says, "this isn't your fault, Steven." He is so sad, so tired, and Steven almost opens his mouth to apologise again. In the end he closes it, burying his words in his wishes.

 

*

 

"Let's buy a boat," says Xabi. They're sat in the changing room, the last two in all of Anfield, and their knees aren't supposed to be touching.

"Sail it down the Mersey," says Steven. Xabi looks at him with interest.

"Really?"

"No, you daft sod." Steven laughs and smacks him with a rolled up sock. "Anyway, a boat's more trouble than it's worth."

"It is not," Xabi scoffs. "Boats are wonderful things."

"Boats are hell to clean and make you seasick."

"You're just saying that because you didn't grow up with the ocean."

"Merseyside, seaside." Steven rolls his eyes. "Same difference."

"'Same difference' is such a ridiculous English expression," Xabi says. "It can't be the same if it's different."

Steven lets his knee fall till it knocks into Xabi's.

"All right, then. Tell me."

"Tell you what?"

There are a lot of things he wants to tell him. Steven leans back against the hard wall and looks at Xabi fondly. His short brown hair is sticking up from the shower and the lines around the corner of his smile crinkle his beard. He smells faintly of freshly cut grass and salt sea breeze.

"What's the ocean like?"  

 

*

 

Xabi's house in San Sebastian is huge, in ways council house boys could never really know. It has glass doors and high ceilings and a porch that leads straight to the beach where the sea laps at the edges of the shore. Steven likes to sit with his feet dangling just above the sand, occasionally allowing his toes to brush against the loose grains.

"I used to play here," Xabi says. "Football. My brother and I would have kickabouts on the beach." Steven tries really hard and can't imagine young Xabi, nine year old Xabi, supposes that even then he would have walked with the effortless grace of lions.

Sometimes Xabi comes to sit with him, when he's not busy burning the beef meant for dinner. Xabi's too much of a hipster to sit on the porch. Instead he climbs down the clean white steps and buries himself in the sand, lying back until his dark hair is full of the stuff. His toes are always tapping to some inaudible song.

Steven asks what it is. He always gets the same answer. "Your song," Xabi says, flicking him a slow, lazy smile as he twists his head to look up towards the porch. "You know how it goes."

No, Steven doesn't know. Xabi closes his eyes. "Steve Gerrard, Gerrard. He'll pass the ball forty yards."

Xabi doesn't have a terrible singing voice, is what Steven learns on the beaches of San Sebastian. He also learns that there are some places it's very hard to get sand out of, but he's not going to tell anyone that.

 

*

 

They have their first fight after the accident.

Both of them regret it immediately, even though Xabi is too proud and Steven is too stubborn to apologise. It happens over nothing: cups in the sink that Steven gets annoyed about because Xabi never washes them, Steven mentioning this to Xabi who shakes his head no, Steven uncomprehending and muttering 'why' resentfully, Xabi refusing to answer straight and voices getting louder and louder until it's a balloon of thunder crashing against their ribs and -

and it bursts with a snap, Xabi's beautiful, soothing voice now raw with anger (hurt) (loss) washing over him: "because I _can't_ , Steven. Do you want to hear me say it? Because I _can't_."

They're silent then and it's the hardest silence Steven's ever endured. He feels his face burning and turns away, the hot, prickly stare searing into his back like the number eight. The heavy stillness pounds in his ears until it consumes him, bloody and cold and loud. He realises it's over everything.

Steven leaves and doesn't go home that night. He thinks of ringing Carra and going over but decides against it, goes to a hotel instead, a cheap two-star in the middle of Huyton. The paint is cracked and hangs down from the ceiling in strips and the dim bulb swings from side to side every time a car goes past. Half of the bed is empty. It's easier to feel sorry for yourself when you're alone.

 

*

 

"Let's buy a boat," says Xabi. They're lying in bed, the gentle arc of Xabi's spine hot against Steven's bare skin. Steven is startled into a laugh.

"The best sex you've ever had and you want to talk about buying a boat."

"Might be better on a boat." Xabi raises a suggestive eyebrow.

"You dirty bastard."

"That makes two of us."

Steven allows his hand to hover above Xabi's shoulder after Xabi falls asleep, imagining him dreaming of boats that quivered in the Mediterranean sea. His forehead is creased and his skin is soft and pale. If he could Steven would spend all of his time like this, committing every curve of Xabi's to memory, as if he'd never see him again.

 

*

 

It isn't the first time Xabi leaves. Steven still has the scars from the last time, with Xabi's lilting 'I'm going, Steven' and the flight number in clean, neat handwriting. But even that wasn't really leaving, was it? Not the way this is, Xabi hiding with his wheelchair in the shadows and his heart under the cracked wooden floor. Steven wants nothing more than to hold him and tell him that things will be okay, but they won't. And he can't.

He cooks breakfast for two and eats alone, hating the way the fork clinks against the porcelain. Xabi comes by the kitchen later when Steven's left for training and takes the plate from the microwave. At night he wheels himself to the spare bedroom and stays in the chair rather than ask for help. The sheets have been smooth and unchanged for months. Steven wishes that his heart was less full, less able to hurt Xabi with its love.

 

*

 

It's supposed to get better.

It's supposed to get better.

 

*

 

Steven remembers this very clearly:

It's all white, the sort of pristine, spotless white that makes you want to throw up. They've both been there before, a litany of hamstrings and ankles, but always with the shadow of _how_ and not _if_ hanging above. He wants to muddy the walls with his boots and throw colour into the white, green for the pitch and red for the liverbird lying in room 302. He stops only because he's afraid he'll make it feel like home.

Xabi's eyes are closed. Steven remembers this very well too. A large strip of gauze circles his forehead and stray strands of brown hair fall over it carelessly. It's all wrong, Steven thinks stupidly, looking at this tableau like a fucking Renaissance painting. Xabi's never been careless in his life.

The feeling hits like a shotgun blast when Steven's eyes travel downwards. He can see Xabi's body outlined by the thin blue cloth, how it hugs his arms and chest and thighs, and then suddenly falls to lie level on the bed, as smooth and as flat as a slick, winding road.

Steven wants to throw up. He stops only because Xabi's eyes flicker open just then, liquid brown. There's a fragility to the moment, balanced precariously between Xabi's disorientation and Steven's fear, and Steven traces the lines of Xabi's face as if he's seeing them for the first time all over again, as if they will break.

"Steven," says Xabi, quietly. Steven will always remember how clear his voice is, the low hum of a spoon against a glass that's almost full. How calm it is, a rock in the sea.

"Xabs," he replies. He can't quite hide the tremor that decorates the edge of the word. If Xabi notices, he doesn't mention it.

"Where am I?" he asks instead.

"Munich. General Hospital. Well. It's something longer in German but I don't know exactly what it means."

"What time is it?"

"About three in the morning. I think you've been out twelve hours, maybe more."

"What am I doing here?"

"You - "

Steven tries, so _hard_ , to get something out. The words crumble in his mouth before they can escape and fall like shards of starlight onto the floor. There's one last thing he remembers: the strange brightness in Xabi's eyes as he says, "Steven."

Bright as the sun.  

"Steven. I can't feel my legs."

 

*

 

There's something you have to understand. When Steven Gerrard and Xabi Alonso first meet, neither of them can understand each other. A Spaniard trying to speak English and a Scouser trying to speak English and they fall over each other stumbling. Except that all melts away on the pitch: then they dance like dragons, the ball flowing between their feet like liquid gold. Soon enough they will talk in different ways, but there will always be this, this speaking with their legs and brains and hearts. Five years is not long enough for Liverpool but one day is long enough for them to realise. There will always be this.

Until, of course, one set of wheels comes off. Then it becomes like the same car which ends it: swerving, skidding, out of control. The ball cannot flow between feet that are not there. So _always_ becomes a broken promise, like every other thing.

 

*

 

"Let's buy a boat," says Xabi. It's Istanbul and it's red and if nothing ever hurt this would be the moment. They're standing outside the stadium and the medals around their necks are heavy. They've also just kissed on international television but Steven's trying desperately not to think very much about that.

"Let's buy, like, mini trophies," Steven counters, running his fingers over the stitched words on his chest. Is-tan-bul. A-lon-so. The euphoria of the moment is gone, but it's been replaced by a warm feeling that spreads to his fingers and makes them tingle, telling him it could never be taken away. _I'm Zidane. I'm Seedorf. I'm from Huyton. I've won the Champions League._ "Or real-sized ones. Everyone gets one and then we can sleep with them tonight."

"Silly Steven," Xabi laughs. "We're not all going to fit."

"Did you just proposition me, Alonso?" Steven gives him a look. Xabi gives him that stupid smirk Steven doesn't know whether he wants to wipe off or keep there.

"Maybe. It depends on how you want to celebrate."

Steven gets to kiss Xabi again that night, and again, and again, far away from international television and the world watching. It's Istanbul and it's the brightness in his eyes and the heat of his skin, warm as the Spanish sun. It's Istanbul and it's red.

 

*

 

There is a space in Block 104 of Anfield, just behind the goal in the Kop where millions of hearts are made and shattered and re-made every week, and the strains of a song that everyone knows tugs at the worn-out threads of red and white scarves. There is a space in between the supporters who cheer and scream and cry just like anybody else, with a bank of smooth concrete marked out by solid yellow (golden) lines and a number specially chosen to remember not forget.

The first time Steven told him about it and asked him to come, Xabi said no. The second time Steven told him about it and asked him to come, Xabi said no and looked down to explain.

Jordan sees him looking at Block 104 six minutes into the Sunderland game. Just before he passes the ball his eyes flick up and down again, blink, then he steers the game on like the captain of the ship he's supposed to be. Jordan catches his arm for a split second and mutters, "Stevie." He yanks his arm away and doesn't look for the rest of the game.

It becomes a habit, though, this stealing of glances, waiting for the object of his devotion to enter the house of his prayers. The season ticket lies unused on the desk where he left it, specks of dust already gathering at the edges. Still he checks, tilting his head to the side as he's leading the team out, before the referee's whistle goes, hoping to feel whole again.

 

*

 

Steven's making breakfast when he hears the squeak of the wheels on the floor. He grips the pan that he's holding tight to make sure he doesn't drop it and continues to flip the omelette until it's done, before sliding it onto a plate and sliding the plate towards Xabi.

Xabi doesn't say anything. He picks up a fork and knife and meticulously cuts the sausages into small, perfectly equal pieces. Steven sits down opposite him and doesn't say anything either. He chops his sausages up roughly and stuffs them into his mouth, like he's suddenly discovered his appetite. Xabi grins a little when he sees this. Steven pretends not to notice.

When Xabi finishes he wheels purposefully to the sink and places his plate there. It's still too early for words, but his eyes meet Steven's across the room and he inclines his head a fraction.

Steven hums a song as he cleans the dishes and the soapy water runs between his fingers. It's only later he realises what the song is, _Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da, life goes on, whoa-oh_ , but the lyrics are his to change.

 

*

 

It must be months (one hundred and ninety six days, Steven's brain tells him, and two hours) when Steven hears a knock on the door. He scrambles out of his sheets and fumbles against the wall for the light, snapping it on to find Xabi sitting quiet in the doorway. He's looking down so that Steven can't see his face. "Steven," he says.

Steven walks over and gets down on his knees. He puts an arm around Xabi, gingerly at first then wound tight, and rests his head on Xabi's chest. Xabi leans into him and sighs.

"You left," Steven says, not in accusation but as fact, a you were supposed to leave, they told me you would leave, they told me twice, seven years and one hundred ninety six days ago.  Months of aching loneliness shift between them.

Xabi shakes his head gently. He says, "I came back." The room is quiet but for the sound of their breathing and the chair as it rocks back and forth. The light falls out of the room and casts an angular shadow through the doorway. Steven carries him to bed now, every night, Xabi's arms slung around his shoulders like a child.

 

*

 

When Steven Gerrard and Xabi Alonso first meet, it's in the middle of Melwood. Xabi's worn the red shirt for about three hours. Steven's worn it for about fifteen years. They shake hands and say their names, although Steven says 'Stevie' and not 'Liverpool' so Xabi knows straightaway he's lying.

He watches Stevie play for a bit, passing the ball with a nonchalant ease that sounds like a lark. Xabi doesn't know how to say this (yet), but he tries. Xabi thinks Stevie has got a bad haircut and wrinkles across his forehead too early and a smile that goes crooked and the worst accent in the world. Xabi thinks Stevie is beautiful.

 

*

 

There is a space in Block 104 of Anfield, just behind the goal in the Kop where thousands of hands are flung into the air and unfettered emotion spills onto the bright green grass every week, clear as the bells of a cathedral. Where it tastes like the past and the future all at once, bird crest gates history, and the grey concrete lies below all that with its yellow golden lines.

Steven leads the team out against West Brom and turns to look. Only his momentum stops him from breaking his stride; he stumbles a little but walks on. (With - ) The soft murmur in the stands about the man in bay fourteen grows into a wave that beats against the billboards around the pitch. Is that - can't be - it is - the game lies almost forgotten as people crane their necks. Someone says, "welcome home." They want to shake his hand.

There is a space in Block 104 of Anfield, just behind the goal in the Kop that Steven hits the ball towards now, and there's something he knows about it, a secret he won't tell anyone but keeps cradled against his heart like a whisper: there was a space, there was.

 

*

 

Steven carries Xabi onto the plane and off again, wheelchairs waiting on either end. Xabi sits remarkably straight besides Steven all the way through, barely moving a muscle. When he sees the taxi his head tilts backwards a fraction and Steven squeezes his hand tight. This time he doesn't pull away.

The drive is long and slow and tiring. Steven almost falls asleep and only the rigid figure of Xabi keeps him awake, Xabi who stares out of the window like he's struggling to gather everything and hold it in his arms. They pull up just in front of the driveway and Steven tips the man five euros before taking Xabi to the edge of the beach.

It's like they never left. It's like nothing ever happened, the grainy white sand that curls between Steven's toes exactly the same, the aqua blue that stretches out onto the horizon where it meets the Spanish sun dipping down from the sky. There's a breeze and it ruffles their hair as well as the cresting white tips of ocean foam that slip towards them. There's a seagull circling just above that throws a shadow which flicks in and out of the corners of the porch. There's love and it hangs lazily in the air, in Steven's hand on Xabi's shoulder, in their quiet, steady heartbeats.

"Hey," says Steven. "Let's buy a boat."

Xabi begins to smile. He feels his breath stutter, reaches up to rest fingers on soft, warm skin.

"Yes," he says. "Let's."

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i. the timeline's all screwy so take no notice of it - 'seven years ago' refers to 2009 and I'm pretending Stevie's still at Liverpool  
> ii. Ob-la-di Ob-la-da is the song that the Xabi Alonso chant is set to  
> iii. Xabi did grow up in San Sebastian although I'm not sure if he had a beach house and I'm not sure if Stevie's ever been  
> iv. There really are disabled supporter berths in block 104 of the Kop, each with their own numbers and yellow line demarcations (I googled pictures of Anfield for this!!! appreciate)  
> v. 'room 302' is this veiled reference to carra bc i lov  
> vi. I really wasn't sure about the ending my original plan was stevie actually buying the boat but this seemed right as well?? should i rewrite it  
> vii. [this](http://statsbomb.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/03/Xabi-Alonso_smirk.jpg) is the stupid xabi smirk bc what the fuck xabs  
> viii. title is from Louise Glück's gorgeous poem _Stars_ :
>
>> Only (softly, fiercely)  
> the stars shining. Here,  
> in the room, the bedroom.  
> Saying _I was brave, I resisted_ ,  
>  _I set myself on fire_.
> 
> iv. thank you for reading <3


End file.
